


No Matter the Ghost

by Howland



Category: Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howland/pseuds/Howland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>500 years can weigh heavy on a guy, and Bob finds himself brooding over his own worth as Dresden's friend and Assistant.  Episode related, 'Birds of a Feather.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter the Ghost

"Get back in you skull, ghost."

Six words. It took six terse words to belay his admonition, his anger, his hurt. Six words and that was that; I had crossed the line and rubbed salt in tender wounds.

Words have become the only way for me to interact with the living for five hundred years, and sometimes I forget my own linguistical strength.

That, and I can really be a royal prick sometimes.

Soon after, when that boy had stopped him in a strange parody of what the child must have thought was bravery, I listened with a heavy heart to Dresden's swift dismissal, still seething over my joke. I knew without a doubt, that if any harm might befall that boy, it would be my head on the proverbial line, tattooed skull and all.

Yes, I knew I could be a prick and knew that boy would have ended up paying for it if I didn't find a way to bring Dresden out of the mood I'd single handedly placed him in; I'd be damned (again) before I got any more blood on my hands.

Well, as much blood as a non-corporeal form would allow for.

Of course, you already know how that marvelous escapade turned out.

The boy was seemingly kidnapped, and in our mad rush to rescue him, we bypassed crucial evidence, which resulted in torture for Harry and agony for me.

So useless! How useless a comrade is, if he can but stand on the sidelines and helplessly watch as his only companion in this wide, cold world gets abused at the hands of a crazed skin-walking wench. And how could I be so horribly blind that I got suckered right into her little scheme? The boy was potentially twice dead by my own doing…

I am a shadow of my former glory. I continue to find that depressing, despite five years of improved circumstances under Harry's roof.

Yes, but of course the boy was all right, Harry survived, and I even had a chance to play around with one of my oldest experiments. I suppose I should find the conclusion of this ill-begotten adventure satisfactory, but I simply cannot.

There is something about today that eats at me, makes me sick in a way that my lack of body has forbade me feeling for five hundred years. Now that the boy and his mother are long gone, and Harry's made his way to bed and into sleep, I find myself watching over him like some fretting mother. I've grown pathetic in my old age, first a pawn in a skin-walking fiasco and now wallowing in my own guilt over the bloody thing. Indeed, my guilt goes back even to my loose tongue this morning in the lab: my damned habit of trying to put the boy in his place.

I'm beginning to think he'll never find that place, that I'll hover over him like this for another forty years, watching him waste away, never realizing his true potential, always leaving me behind unable to help.

Bother. I suppose I mustn't ruminate in it. The Doom Box was a success today in destroying that skinwalker, and I really should work the results into my calculations. Heaven knows if I don't find something to do until sunrise, I'll end up standing over him all night, brooding like some angst ridden adolescent worrying about things he cannot control.

Once again I am struck by the fact that I'm just a shadow of my former self. I think I'll always find that depressing.

Silently, I bid the man goodnight, reaching out to sense the sigils of protection around the building and making sure that they are all strong and good, and that nothing will hurt Harry again tonight. The man has had a trying day, and whether or not it was actually my fault, he deserves to be safe. I'll give my life to give him that, but for now, I settle for checking the runes along the rafters, and bidding him pleasant dreams.

In the end, I return to my skull, unable to focus on my equations, and I worry like only I know how.


End file.
